Geoffrey Chaucer

The wise man, though he be old and hoor, Yet wil he lerne, and evermore.

For if a man be trewe in his entent, He may nat faille of his felicitee.

Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat fayle.

For every man that is in swich array, That he ne may nat speke, but he may pray.

The world is but a game, and we are but players.

And in a word, she was a right good creature.

Full weel she soong the service dyvyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely.

He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men.

His heed was balded that shoon as any glas, And eek his face, as he hadde been enoynt.

His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys, Thereto strong he was as a champioun.

She would weep if she saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled. She had some small hounds that she fed With roasted meat, or milk and fine white bread.

His legs were like sticks, and no calf muscle was visible on his legs.

The Friar was very fond of playing and played so madly as if he were a puppy-dog in spite of this his eyes twinkled in his head in the same way as the stars do in the frosty night, while playing the harp.

His curly hair looked as if they were pressed in a machine and his clothes were embellished with red and white, as if it were a meadow full of fresh flowers.

The Wife of Bath... had set widely 'gap-teeth'.

The Miller's prominent feature was his nose with 'a wart on which there stood a tuft of hair Red as the bristles in an old sow's ear'.

'For shame,' she said, 'you timorous poltroon! Alas, what cowardice!'

He was a verray parfit gentil knyght. But for to speken of his array, his hors were goode, but he was nat gay.

And certeinly he was a good felawe; Ful many a draughte of wyn had he ydrawe.

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, An outridere, that loved venerie.